Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  At this moment Martial descended, leaning on the arm of La Louve, who still retained over her wet clothes the plaid cloak which belonged to Calabash. Struck with the paleness of Martial, and remarking his hands covered with dried blood, the comte exclaimed, “Who is this man?”

  “My husband!” replied La Louve, looking at Martial with an expression of happiness and noble pride impossible to describe.

  “You have a good and intrepid wife, sir,” said the comte to him. “I saw her save this unfortunate young girl with singular courage.”

  “Yes, sir, my wife is good and intrepid,” replied Martial, with emphasis, and regarding La Louve with an air at once full of love and tenderness. “Yes, intrepid; for she has also come in time to save my life.”

  “Your life?” exclaimed the comte.

  “Look at his hands — his poor hands!” said La Louve, wiping away the tears which softened the wild brightness of her eyes.

  “Horrible!” cried the comte. “See, doctor, how his hands are hacked!”

  Doctor Griffon, turning his head slightly, and looking over his shoulder at Martial’s hands, said to him, “Open and shut your hand.”

  Martial did so with considerable pain. The doctor shrugged his shoulders, and continued his attentions to Fleur-de-Marie, saying merely, and as if with regret:

  “There’s nothing serious in those cuts, — there’s no tendon injured. In a week the subject will be able to use his hands again.”

  “Then, sir, my husband will not be crippled?” said La Louve, with gratitude.

  The doctor shook his head affirmatively.

  “And La Goualeuse will recover — won’t she, sir?” inquired La Louve. “Oh, she must live, for I and my husband owe her so much!” Then turning towards Martial, “Poor dear girl! There she is, as I told you, — she who will, perhaps, be the cause of our happiness; for it was she who gave me the idea of coming and saying to you all I have said. What a chance that I should save her — and here, too!”

  “She is a providence,” said Martial, struck by the beauty of La Goualeuse. “What an angel’s face! Oh, she will recover, will she not, doctor?”

  “I cannot say,” replied the doctor. “But, in the first place, can she remain here? Will she have all necessary attention?”

  “Here?” cried La Louve; “why, they commit murder here!”

  “Silence — silence!” said Martial.

  The comte and the doctor looked at La Louve with surprise.

  “This house in the isle has a bad reputation hereabouts, and I am not astonished at it,” observed the doctor, in a low tone, to M. de Saint-Remy.

  “You have, then, been the victim of some violence?” observed the comte to Martial. “How did you come by those wounds?”

  “They are nothing — nothing, sir. I had a quarrel — a struggle ensued, and I was wounded. But this young peasant girl cannot remain in this house,” he added, with a gloomy air. “I cannot remain here myself — nor my wife, nor my brother, nor my sister, whom you see. We are going to leave the isle, never to return to it.”

  “Oh, how nice!” exclaimed the two children.

  “Then what are we to do?” said the doctor, looking at Fleur-de-Marie. “It is impossible to think of conveying the subject to Paris in her present state of prostration. But then my house is quite close at hand, my gardener’s wife and her daughter are capital nurses; and since this asphyxia by submersion interests you, my dear Saint-Remy, why, you can watch over the necessary attentions, and I will come and see her every day.”

  “And you assume the harsh and pitiless man,” exclaimed the comte, “when, as your proposal proves, you have one of the noblest hearts in the world!”

  “If the subject sinks under it, as is possible, there will be an opportunity for a most interesting dissection, which will allow me to confirm once again Goodwin’s assertions.”

  “How horridly you talk!” cried the comte.

  “For those who know how to read, the dead body is a book in which they learn to save the lives of the diseased!” replied Dr. Griffon, stoically.

  “At last, then, you do good?” said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness; “and that is important. What consequence is the cause provided that benefit results? Poor child! The more I look at her the more she interests me.”

  “And well does she deserve it, I can tell you, sir,” observed La Louve, with excitement, and approaching him.

  “Do you know her?” inquired the comte.

  “Do I know her, sir? Why, it is to her I owe the happiness of my life; and I have not done for her half what she has done for me.” And La Louve looked passionately towards her husband, — she no longer called him her man!

  “And who is she?” asked M. de Saint-Remy.

  “An angel, sir, — all that is good in this world. Yes; and although she is dressed as a country girl, there is no merchant’s wife, no great lady, who can discourse as well as she can, with her sweet little voice just like music. She is a noble girl, I say, — full of courage and goodness.”

  “By what accident did she fall into the water?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “Then she is not a peasant girl?” asked the comte.

  “A peasant girl, — look at her small white hands, sir!”

  “True,” observed M. de Saint-Remy; “what a strange mystery! But her name — her family?”

  “Come along,” said the doctor, breaking into the conversation; “we must convey the subject into the boat.”

  Half an hour after this, Fleur-de-Marie, who had not yet recovered her senses, was in the doctor’s abode, lying in a good bed, and maternally watched by M. Griffon’s gardener’s wife, to whom was added La Louve. The doctor promised M. de Saint-Remy, who was more and more interested in La Goualeuse, to return to see her again in the evening. Martial went to Paris with François and Amandine, La Louve being unwilling to quit Fleur-de-Marie before she had been pronounced out of danger.

  The Isle du Ravageur remained deserted. We shall presently find its sinister inhabitants at Bras-Rouge’s, where they were to be joined by the Chouette for the murder of the diamond-matcher. In the meantime we will conduct the reader to the rendezvous which Tom, Sarah’s brother, had with the horrible hag, the Schoolmaster’s accomplice.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  THE PORTRAIT.

  THOMAS SEYTON, THE brother of the Countess Sarah Macgregor, was walking impatiently on the boulevards near the Observatory, when he saw the Chouette arrive. The horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual plaid shawl. The point of a stiletto, as round as a thick swan’s quill, and very sharp, having perforated a hole at the bottom of her large straw basket which she carried on her arm, the extremity of this murderous weapon, which had belonged to the Schoolmaster, might be seen projecting. Thomas Seyton did not perceive that the Chouette was armed.

  “It has just struck three by the Luxembourg,” said the old woman. “Here I am, like the hand of the clock.”

  “Come,” replied Thomas Seyton. And, preceding her, he crossed some open fields; and turning down a deserted alley near the Rue Cassini, he stopped half way down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened a small door, motioned to the Chouette to follow him; and, after having advanced with her a few steps down a path overgrown by thick trees, he said, “Wait here,” and disappeared.

  “That is, if you don’t keep me on the ‘waiting lay’ too long,” responded the Chouette; “for I must be at Bras Rouge’s at five o’clock to meet the Martials, and help silence the diamond-matcher. It’s very well I have my ‘gulley’ (poniard). Oh, the vagabond, he has got his nose out of window!” added the hag, as she saw the point of the stiletto coming through the seam in the basket. And taking the weapon, which had a wooden handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was completely concealed. “This is fourline’s tool,” she continued, “and he has asked me for it so many times to kill the rats who came skipping about him in his cellar. Poor things! They have no one but the old blind man
to divert them and keep them company. They ought not to be hurt if they play about a bit; and so I will not let him hurt the dears, and I keep his tool to myself. Besides, I shall soon want it for this woman, perhaps. Thirty thousand francs’ worth of diamonds, — what a ‘haul’ for each of us! It’ll be a good day’s work, and not like that of the other day with that old notary whom I thought to squeeze. It was no use to threaten him if he would not ‘stand some blunt’ that I would lay information that it was his housekeeper who had sent La Goualeuse to me by Tournemine when she was a little brat. Nothing frightened the old brute, he called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. Well, well, I’ll send an anonymous letter to these people at the farm where Pegriotte was, to inform them that it was the notary who formerly abandoned her to me. Perhaps they know her family; and when she gets out of St. Lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for that old brute, Jacques Ferrand. Some one comes, — ah, it is the pale lady who was dressed in men’s clothes at the tapis-franc of the ogress, and with the tall fellow who just left me, the same that the fourline and I robbed by the excavations near Notre-Dame,” added the Chouette, as she saw Sarah appear at the extremity of the walk. “Here’s another job for me, I see; and this little lady must have something to do with our having carried off La Goualeuse from the farm. If she pays well for another job of work, why, that will be ‘the ticket.’”

  As Sarah approached the Chouette, whom she saw again for the first time since their rencontre at the tapis-franc, her countenance expressed the disdain, the disgust, which persons of a certain rank feel when they come in contact with low wretches whom they take as tools or accomplices.

  Thomas Seyton, who, until now, had actively served the criminal machinations of his sister, although he considered them as all but futile, had refused any longer to continue this contemptible part, consenting, nevertheless, for the first and last time to put his sister in communication with the Chouette, without himself interfering in the fresh projects they might plan. The countess, unable to win back Rodolph to her by breaking the bonds or the affections which she believed so dear to him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of a base deceit, the success of which might realise the vision of this obstinate, ambitious, and cruel woman. Her design was to persuade Rodolph that their daughter was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child.

  We know that Jacques Ferrand — having formally refused to participate in this plot in spite of Sarah’s menaces — had resolved to make away with Fleur-de-Marie, as much from the fear of the Chouette’s disclosure, as from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. But the latter had by no means abandoned her design, feeling persuaded that she should corrupt or intimidate the notary when she should be assured of having obtained a young girl capable of filling the character which she desired her to assume.

  After a moment’s silence Sarah said to the Chouette, “You are adroit, discreet, and resolute?”

  “Adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute as a fish; such is the Chouette, and such the devil made her; at your service if you want her, — and you do,” replied the old wretch, quickly. “I hope we have managed well with the young country wench who is now in St. Lazare for two good months.”

  “We are not talking of her, but of something else.”

  “Anything you please, my handsome lady, provided there’s money at the end of what you mean to propose, and then we shall be as right as my fingers.”

  Sarah could not control a movement of disgust. “You must know,” she resumed, “many people in the lower ranks of life, — persons who are in misfortune?”

  “There are more of them than there are of millionaires; you may pick and choose. We have plentiful wretchedness in Paris.”

  “I want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particularly if she lost her parents young. She must be good-looking, of gentle disposition, and not more than seventeen years of age.”

  The Chouette gazed at Sarah with amazement.

  “Such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult to meet with,” continued the countess; “there are so many foundling children!”

  “Why, my good lady, you forget La Goualeuse. She is the very thing.”

  “Who is La Goualeuse?”

  “The young thing we carried off from Bouqueval.”

  “We are not talking of her now, I tell you.”

  “But hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my advice. You want an orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, as handsome as daylight, and who is only seventeen, you say?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, then, take La Goualeuse when she leaves St. Lazare; she is the very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. For she was about six years of age when that scamp, Jacques Ferrand (and it’s now ten years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid of her, — that is to say, it was Tournemine, who is now at the galleys at Rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead.”

  “Jacques Ferrand, do you say?” exclaimed Sarah, in a voice so choked that the Chouette receded several paces. “The notary, Jacques Ferrand, gave you this child — and — ?” She could not finish, her emotion was too violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the Chouette, she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features.

  “I don’t know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good lady,” replied the old hag; “but it is a very simple story. Ten years ago Tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: ‘Have you a mind to take charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? No matter whether she slips her wind or not. There’s a thousand francs for the job, and do what you like with the ‘kinchin.’”

  “Ten years ago?” cried Sarah.

  “Ten years.”

  “A little fair girl?”

  “A little fair girl.”

  “With blue eyes?”

  “Blue eyes — as blue as blue bells.”

  “And it was she who was at the farm?”

  “And we packed her up and carted her off to St. Lazare. I must say, though, that I didn’t expect to find her — Pegriotte — in the country as I did, though.”

  “Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” exclaimed Sarah, falling on her knees, and elevating her hands and eyes to heaven, “Thy ways are inscrutable, and I bow down before thy providence! Oh, if such happiness be possible! But, no, I cannot yet believe it; it would be too fortunate! No!” Then rising suddenly she said to the Chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost astonishment, “Follow me!” And Sarah walked before her with hasty steps.

  At the end of the alley she ascended several steps that led by a glass door to a small room sumptuously furnished. At the moment when the Chouette was about to enter, Sarah made a sign to her to remain outside, and then rang the bell violently. A servant appeared.

  “I am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter here, — no one, do you hear?”

  The servant bowed and retired. Sarah, for the sake of greater security, pushed to the bolt. The Chouette heard the order given to the servant, and saw Sarah fasten the bolt. The countess then turning towards her, said: “Come in quickly, and shut the door.”

  The Chouette did as she was bidden.

  Hastily opening a secrétaire, Sarah took from it an ebony coffer, which she placed on a writing-table in the centre of the room, and beckoned the Chouette towards her. The coffer was filled with small caskets lying one upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. Sarah was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the coffer, that she hastily scattered over the table these jewel-cases, splendidly filled with necklaces, bracelets, tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which sparkled with a thousand fires.

  The Chouette was dazzled. She was armed, was alone with the countess; escape was easy — certain. An infernal idea shot through the brain of this monster. But to put this new crime into execution it was necessary to extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach Sa
rah without exciting her suspicions.

  With the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along treacherously towards its prey, the beldame profited by the countess’s preoccupation to move imperceptibly around the table which separated her from her victim. The Chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, when she was compelled suddenly to stop short. Sarah took a locket from the bottom of the box, leaned over the table, and, handing it to the Chouette with a trembling hand, said:

  “Look at this portrait.”

  “It is Pegriotte!” exclaimed the Chouette, struck with the strong resemblance; “it is the little girl who was handed to me! I think I see her just as she was when Tournemine brought her to me. That’s just like her long curling hair, which I cut off and sold directly, ma foi!”

  “You recognise her; it is really she? Oh, I conjure you, do not deceive me — do not deceive me!”

  “I tell you, my good lady, it is Pegriotte, as if I saw herself there,” said the Chouette, trying to draw nearer to Sarah without being remarked. “And even now she is very like this portrait; if you saw her you would be struck by the likeness.”

  Sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when she learned that her daughter had been for ten years leading a wretched existence, forsaken as she was. Not one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the peaceful retreat in which Rodolph had placed her. This unnatural mother did not eagerly question the Chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the child. No! In her heart ambition had long since stifled every sentiment of maternal tenderness. It was not joy at again being restored to a lost daughter that transported her, — it was the hope of seeing at length realised the vain dream of her whole existence. Rodolph had felt deeply interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected her without knowing her; what would then be his feelings when he discovered that she was — his daughter? He was free — the countess was a widow! Sarah already saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her brow.